


Action, Consequence

by phenanthrene_blue



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Celebrations, Drunken Shenanigans, Everybody is trashed, Filthy, I'm Not Ashamed, In Flagrante Delicto, Los Angeles Dodgers, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Someday I'll Write Something That's Not Smut, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 09:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16514105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phenanthrene_blue/pseuds/phenanthrene_blue
Summary: It’s an established fact in baseball that some pretty crazy things happen during playoff celebrations.Especially after a Game Seven.





	Action, Consequence

_It’s an established fact in baseball that some pretty crazy things happen during playoff celebrations._

_Especially after a Game Seven._

Such is the case now. The Dodgers’ pennant celebration is, to use the cliche, one for the ages.

The visitors’ clubhouse is insane; an absolute shrieking exorcism of champagne and liquor and beer, shouting and thudding bass and cigar smoke and _sheer relief_ that can probably be heard back in LA. 

It’s also, as someone on Twitter will Captain Obvious in the morning, a borderline orgy. The reporters and cameramen are gone. Everyone’s “National League Champions” shirt gets soaked with booze and they all eventually end up in piles between the empty and broken bottles. Half the bullpen has formed a smashed and uncoordinated conga line of sorts, and Walker’s choking back tears as he laughs, trying to record it on his phone. Cody, his pants unbuttoned for some reason, is twerking on Joc, who wears only mild amusement on his face because he’s had five beers. Or was it six? Manny’s trying the same maneuver, albeit with less pelvic thrusting, grinding slowly up against Kenley, who pours a full bottle of expensive tequila over his head. _Goggles? Who cares about those? And where did the tequila come from anyway?_ And of course Yasiel’s got his hands and his tongue everywhere and on _everyone_ , but that’s Yasiel.

It’s all meaningless, blurry fun and tensions released, and no one really regrets anything after the adrenaline and alcohol wear off. Half of them won’t even remember it in the morning. Some of them won’t even realize that they’ve actually won the Pennant - the _fucking National League Pennant!_ \- until they get the World Series patches stitched on their jerseys. The wives and girlfriends made some sort of pact to simply not ask about any of it, barring someone actually getting murdered in the clubhouse. It’s a kind of polite fiction.

_It’s “Actions Without Consequences Night”,_ as Kersh’s wife described it, rather aptly, once, and _everyone’s_ got their actions right now. 

Except for Yasmani, who kneels awkwardly in the corner of the room, pushing the brim of his new World Series hat backwards as he tips back another beer. It’s been a _rough_ series, spent whiffing at high fastballs with guys on, having oven mitts for hands behind the plate, getting booed, wondering if he’ll even be in LA next season - and he can’t get into it. He feels like they won in _spite_ of him; like he has no right to celebrate anything. He even starts to think about walking out, going home.

And then Kiké shows up, walks right up to him, and kicks him in the shin. It’s not hard enough to hurt, just enough to interrupt his thinking.

_“Que pasa?”_ he yells above the noise in the clubhouse, his voice messy with the beginnings of inebriation. “World Series, baby!”

Kiké is still mostly in uniform, but his jersey is untucked and unbuttoned, with drops of moisture - either sweat or alcohol - forming a sheen on the bare skin of his chest and stomach.

All Yasmani can muster is an interrupted half-laugh, and he takes another swig of his beer, swallowing thickly. He’s going to need another. 

_Because Yasmani would be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t thought about Kiké before, even before Kiké defended him. He’s convinced that half the team had probably been kept awake thinking about him at some point. Kiké_ is _pretty hard to ignore, after all, with all his extroversion and confidence and almost-flirtatious energy. But even beyond that, Yasmani caught himself occasionally catching a glance at the way Kiké licked his lips or smoothed his hair with his hand after pulling off his batting helmet. He_ likes _the kid, the way he likes all his teammates, but there’s a little something extra beneath it, something that Yasmani doesn’t understand. Something that he doesn’t try to make himself understand._

_So he had chalked it all up to stress, a few invasive thoughts, just a little frisson of something that didn’t quite make sense, with all of them boiling around in in the pressure cooker of a pennant race where things frequently don’t make sense._

“You.” Kiké says, kneeling down next to Yasmani. “ _So_ tense.” Kiké puts his hand on the catcher’s shoulder and squeezes firmly, moving closer. He’s smiling, broad and easy. 

“In case you forgot, we _won_.” Kiké slurs on, and he pushes himself up against Yasmani a little bit. “You need to _relax_.”

He reeks like a brewery and Yasmani isn’t even sure that Kiké knows where he is. But he’s warm, wound up and doe-eyed and _combustible as always,_ and Yasmani’s mind is now positively spinning from the all the alcohol and _God damn_ , Kiké is the _sexiest_ teammate that he’s ever had. 

And Kiké moves even closer, letting Yasmani’s knee slip gently between his legs. There’s the smallest twitch of Kiké’s hips forward, the lightest tease of his groin against Yasmani’s thigh, and Yasmani feels his entire body tense up. 

_He’s already up to his eyes in all the dirty thoughts that’ve welled up in his brain, but now Kiké is putting his foot over his head and pushing him under, threatening to drown him. But Yasmani is pliant and drunk and aching to get all of it in his lungs, to get his atrocious performance out of his head, for, shit -_ anything _\- and he doesn’t really object_ _when Kiké drags him to his feet and right out of the clubhouse._  

“C’mon.” Kiké has some mischief in his eyes, the kind of look that just _levels_ any resistance.

_Yasmani isn’t sure where they’re going, but he’s sure it’s an egregiously stupid idea._

_***_

_It wasn’t supposed to end like this._

_It was just a bit of horseplay in the shower room, a half-argument where Kiké had told him that nothing that happened in the games was as bad as he thought, and Yasmani got angry, or, at least pretended he was angry - hands up in feigned exasperation and everything. Kiké had slapped him in the ass with a wet towel, and it had lead to stumbling and shoving and wrestling and not enough space between them._  

_Sparked and saturated with alcohol like it all was, it blew up._  

_And now Yasmani can’t believe_ he’s doing this. Kiké’s hands are pressed up against up the tiles, his knuckles beginning to redden. His tight baseball pants are pulled down around his thighs, and Yasmani’s fingernails trace down Kiké’s lower back as he starts to push inside him, pants barely down around his own ass. Yasmani swears, spreading Kiké apart with his hands, and just _watches,_ loving the sight of his dick sliding into his teammate’s tight hole, and Kiké inhales hoarsely, pleasure spiked with an obvious twinge of pain.

Yasmani leans over as he starts to rut into Kiké from behind, biting at the stitched lettering on the back of Kiké’s jersey, pulling the fabric with his teeth. _He likes the kid. He likes the way he plays. He likes how his over-friendliness and intensity play counterpoint to his own personality and it somehow works._ However, it doesn’t take too much mental capacity for Yasmani to realize that _this_ is how he likes Kiké best: drunk and willing, tight ass full of his cock, blushed to the roots of his hair, his speech a borderline incoherent mix of English and Spanish.

Yasmani drops his knees slightly and fucks himself up forward, upward, gentle at first and then rougher, leveraging himself a little to make Kiké _feel it_ , and he knows he is when Kiké starts to plead between his faster breaths.

It makes Yasmani _proud_ , hearing his _teammate_ whimper and beg like this, and he responds by jerking his arm, hard, almost like he’s throwing underhand, and smacking Kiké’s ass so loud that it echoes.

“Aye!” Kiké yelps. “Fuck, _Yasmani-_!”

Yasmani responds by pushing at the back of Kiké’s neck, fingers scraping up into Kiké’s hair, and pinning his head rudely to the wall with his entire hand. Yasmani doesn’t even fully _know_ why he’s so rough. He’s _trashed_ , for one, with all his movements exaggerated, and it’s part celebration but more frustration, both from playing so poorly and from thinking about some variation of _this_ for so long. And it’s _so hot,_ moreso than he imagined it would ever be. Kiké is _so warm_ inside, like he is everywhere else, and Yasmani is coming completely unshackled - he’s legitimately _never felt anything so good_.

Using his other hand, Yasmani pulls Kiké’s pants down further. He spits into his palm and starts jerking Kiké off, letting Kiké guide his hand at first. Kiké is soon trembling and _begging_ again, rocking his ass backwards onto Yasmani’s cock and then fucking Yasmani’s hand, wet from saliva and pre-come and _completely_ unable to control the volume of his voice or the erratic motions of his hips. Drunk or not, Yasmani can’t believe the things he’s _saying._ It’s almost not his voice, low and grainy, telling Kiké how _good_ he is, how _smooth_ he takes it and how _tight he feels inside_ , and Kiké is _laughing_. The little shit is _laughing_ at him _._ So Yasmani spanks him again, fingers pausing over Kiké’s hot, abused skin, and makes him take it _faster_.

“ _Harder.”_ Kiké says, his laugh melting into a low groan, “Mas-mas _duro.”_  

And Yasmani pulls out all the way and then rams his cock back inside Kiké in one fast, unforgiving motion. His hands squeak against the tiles and this time Kiké actually _screams,_ and Yasmani has to clap his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

Because he’s sure someone heard _that,_ even over the low, pulsing drone of the music that still emanates from the clubhouse. 

_And for a moment, Yasmani thinks. He thinks about the World Series, and what he’s going to_ do _to Kiké if they win the World Series. He thinks about taking him back to his hotel room and not caring how loud he is, about pinning Kiké’s hands, fucking Kiké’s mouth, about_ everything _. Shit, he thinks about what he’s going to do even if they_ lose, and that’s pretty much all it takes before Yasmani comes, _hard_ , fireworks and flashbulbs and wordless panting and thrusts damn near hard enough to take them both through the wall. 

Yasmani pulls out slowly, his cock pink from friction, spent and oversensitive and _completely_ blown. Kiké’s close, humping Yasmani’s hand and muttering something unintelligible against the wall, and Yasmani pushes two fingers inside him, thick knuckles disappearing inside Kiké’s ass. Kiké’s _wet_ , slick with come, and he gasps and shakes, clenching around his fingers when Yasmani rubs over his prostate. It’s just a few more pushes, a few more seconds of working Kiké open with his fingers before Kiké’s gone, his voice tortured raw, spilling blood-hot all over Yasmani’s hand and the floor.

Then Kiké’s knees give out as he yields to his orgasm, or maybe the floor’s just wet in a spot, and he loses his balance, fingers slipping down the tiles, scrabbling for something to keep him upright. And of course his hand catches the faucet handle and he somehow turns it on as he as he lands ass-first on Yasmani’s ankles. Or maybe Kiké does it _intentionally_ ; Yasmani really can’t tell in the split-second where his feet go out from under him and he’s on the floor too. 

And of course it’s fucking _cold_ , because that’s how this night’s gotta end - bare-assed on the floor and taking a literal cold shower.

And of course Kiké laughs. He laughs until he’s got tears beading up in the corner of his eyes. He’s just sitting there, laughing, pants around his ankles, letting the water soak his hair, his jersey, and everything else, for a minute.

Honestly, all Yasmani can do is laugh back at him. He cracks up and everything’s just pouring out - the stupid game, and his inability to catch, the realization of just how dizzy he is, and _what the fuck did we just do?_ in his head on repeat. Until Kiké slides on top of him, wet and surprisingly heavy. He clutches a fistful of Yasmani’s shirt, and kisses him, all tongue and dripping water and over-boiling emotion.

God, it’s almost _too_ good to be drunk for.

***

The sound of the footsteps are quiet at first, barely audible, but they pick up almost too fast, and Kiké goes “Oh _shit.”_ and turns the water off. But it’s too late, and in an instant Yasiel’s standing there at the entrance to the showers, two mostly-full bottles of champagne clutched in his right hand.

_Yasmani thinks of that soap opera trope, where the dude’s wife walks in on him cavorting in bed with his secretary, and he begs her not to get angry, saying “it’s not what it looks like!”_

He’s drunk, clothes half-torn off, in the shower, and Kiké’s on top of him. It’s _exactly_ what it looks like.

Yasiel doesn’t seem to care, as he’s maybe three minutes tops from blacking out. He’s hammered, grin plastered to his face, swaying like he can’t remember how his feet work. Yasiel passes the first bottle to Kiké. He then stumbles forward and wrenches the cork from the second with more effort than is really necessary. Yasiel dumps the entire thing over Kiké’s head, foam and bubbles coursing down through Kiké’s soaked hair, spilling down onto Yasmani’s neck and chest.

He then raises a finger to his lips, which form into an all-knowing smirk, and he slowly backs out of the room.

_Clearly, it’s not the craziest thing he’s seen in the aftermath of a playoff celebration._

Kiké takes a hefty gulp of the champagne, and passes it to Yasmani, who does the same.

***

It might be 6AM when he wakes up. It might be 6PM. It’s not like Yasmani really cares that much.

He’s in bed in the hotel, on top of the blankets. He’s wearing only his boxers. He’s got a mind-numbing headache, an unwelcome harbinger of what will probably be the worst hangover he’s had in his life.

The room is completely trashed, with clothes and empty bottles thrown everywhere. Yasiel’s asleep in the chair next to the bed, with his arms crossed over his stomach and chin pressed into his collarbone.

Yasmani rolls over and finds Kiké next to him. He’s facing the other way, shirtless, breathing softly, with his hair a greasy, sticky mess.

_What in the name of God happened?_

What he _can_ remember runs in his head from the beginning in fits and starts. Game 7. _Milwaukee’s bullpen imploded. Kersh got the last three outs. Everyone came flooding out of the dugout. New hat, new shirt, cameras in their face, and a staggering amount of alcohol._

Colors. The championship shirts were grey. There were light blue shower tiles, somewhere. And a black void between the part where Kiké kicks him in the leg and he wakes up, and -

Oh.

_Ohhhhh._

Here, Yasmani lets his memory just _linger,_ lets it run through him forward and backward and fill every space in his brain until his face burns up.

He reaches out and presses his fingers gently into the nape of Kiké’s neck. It’s sober, chaste; almost curious.

_Well, they won, and he finally relaxed._

_And he likes the kid._ God damn, he really, _really_ likes him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Total fiction, obvs; no slander or harm meant!
> 
> Yeah, I realize the Dodgers lost, but there's so much good Dodger fic here that I thought I'd have a swing at contributing to this...um...particularly illustrious genre.
> 
> Thanks to blastellanos for the beta.


End file.
